


Bottom of the Barrel

by carnography (orphan_account)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/carnography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before she moves to New Caprica, Adama teaches Laura how to shoot a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottom of the Barrel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["Light and Laughter"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/113584) by somadanne. 



“Remember to hold it steady; pull back slowly until you’re surprised by the explosion.”

Laura appeared to have filed away his instructions, nodding very seriously as she squared her shoulders beneath the fluorescent lights of Galactica’s firing range. She slipped the muffs onto her ears—trapping her unruly hair against her cheeks—donned the protective goggles, and assumed her stance with the pistol aimed down the range. All actions performed with her usual piercing, effortless grace—a focus that fooled him into hoping. Latching onto the idea that she might be a decent shot without any further instruction. A magic bullet. A natural. A savant, maybe.

When she fired off her first round, his heart fell with every empty shell.

Laura Roslin couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

Even when he intervened—his hands repositioning her waist, his fingers adjusting her bent elbows and her weak wrists—Laura was useless with a gun. Her technique was terrible, and it continued to worsen until she went through an entire clip without even nicking the paper target.

(Maybe he should have expected this instead. She’d been a politician up until a few weeks ago, and no one had ever accused a politician of straight shooting.)

“I really don’t want to do this anymore,” she said, grimacing as she tugged the earmuffs down around her neck.

“You might need to know how to aim and shoot a gun someday. I don’t like having you down there unprotected.”

He tried to conceal how much her safety concerned him. He tried to conceal his fear for her. She’d head for the hatch if she knew. Maybe laugh off his alpha-male attempt at chivalry, because Laura Roslin calculated her own odds and determined her own limits and survived them. That was her way, and this was his way, and they were both too old to change them now. So, he always needed to devise a different approach.

Laura was a different caliber of woman from Jaycie and Carolanne, Ellen and Kara, Boomer and Athena, and most of the women who populated his life. He couldn’t push her. He couldn’t bully an idea into her head. She required a softer touch, or it would all backfire. And he’d been carefully tending the idea for a few days now, but it was amazing she agreed to this at all.

She lifted a shoulder, ejected the cartridge, and set the gun aside. “I’m sure I could hit something if I needed to.”

“It takes practice, Laura. Even my best shots spend time at the gun range.”

She smiled, disarming and diplomatic, and closed the arms of her goggles. “Yes. And Captain Thrace, your best shot, has a plot near mine. I don’t know why you think this is necessary.”

“We can’t let our guard down,” he said. “You never know what people might do given a little freedom.”

Every civilization, no matter how small, had a handful of sick fraks. Even during peacetime, before both wars, there were reports of men who got their jollies from targeting presidents, former presidents, prime ministers, admirals, and judges.

This fleet was infested with grief, fear, and trauma. Wolves were bound to spring up from the sheep, and Laura walking among them like a dark symbol of the year before—a reminder of the gloom and the pain and the war—could stir up dark memories. Trigger even darker urges.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“The Cylons-“

“I just don’t like guns, never have,” Laura said, cutting him off.

She twirled a finger around a loose thread, tugging it from her snug pullover sweater and slipping it into her back pocket. The clothes cost her a footlocker of personal effects. He’d spotted her down the pilot’s corridor, exchanging with one of his transfers from the _Pegasus_. A career soldier, callsign Firebrand, who thus far hadn’t informed him of any plans to head planetside. Unfortunately, she was an unusual case. Most of them were itching for the surface. Even Starbuck. Especially Starbuck. She’d already been to that rock twice in three weeks.

And of course, he caved. He couldn’t say ‘no’ to those merry eyes.

Kara mustered out in six days. Laura shared her deadline, even though something had happened to them these past few weeks. In the wake of the voter-fraud, and Baltar’s inauguration, and the tragedy of Cloud Nine, they became something.

Three days in, and she couldn’t be found in the guest quarters he’d prepared for her. She was holed up in his cabin with her pumps kicked off and her neckline down a button, with her eyeglasses lost on a shelf somewhere.

He would bumble through the hatch after an uneventful shift, his back stiff and his heels sore, and he would find her with her nose buried in a book and her legs pointed in a perfect ivory line down his couch. They would share dinner and they would trade laughs and enjoy an evening coffee. And he’d go to bed, just aching for her in the dark.

Wanting her had become so second nature to him that it was background noise, sizzling behind every motion of his daily routine. But six days in, she climbed into his lap after supper, and he realized how truly unbearable it was—wanting her for as long as he did, as much as she did. Six days in, she blew him away; and in the days that followed, they made something hot and sweet and frenzied, before she’d kiss him goodnight and slip from his bed, dressing so slow and leaving so soon. The hatch screeching on its hinges, and clanging behind her.

Now, she was leaving on a much grander scale.

Her number was pulled in the land lottery. A scab of dirt was appointed to her by the President.

It was a joke. It hurt.

He had to wonder why his most treasured memories were those he’d have to look back on having to forgo the circumstances, because the circumstances were always bad. Always bad when he was feeling the best.

Maybe he should just enjoy this. Maybe they both should. Gods knew how long it would be until he could stomach the ground.

Her arm hung loose at her side, fingernail pressed against the safety. The muzzle grazed a crease in her black cargo pants, and he found himself wanting her. Just like he always wanted her.

“We could always make a game of it,” Bill said, stepping toward her. “Make it fun for you.”

Arching an eyebrow, Laura shifted her weight. “And how do you propose we do that?”

A grin broke through. “Ever play strip poker?”

Laura smirked, her eyes shining. “I know how it’s played.”

“We could…apply the same stakes to targeting practice.”

Her tongue darted out, giving her upper lip a kittenish lick before she relented to a slow and speculative smile. “Or,” Laura said, “We could head back to your quarters, and make a game of it there….”

She laughed moments before he joined her.

Bill edged closer, lowering his voice. “That’s very tempting, Laura,” he admitted, touching her waist with a finger and curling it around a frayed belt loop.

“But?”

In answer, Bill wrapped his hand around hers and pressed her palm flush against the varnished grip. She couldn’t understand that this was how he prayed. This was his peace of mind, lit candles and incense. This weapon was an extension of him. It was the only way.

“Alright,” she sighed. “Let’s make the rules.”

As was their way, Bill and Laura squabbled and nit-picked until they finally compromised on a tentative outline of regs.

Laura’s target was reeled in closer, because of her inexperience.

They’d take turns.

Whoever was farthest from the bull’s-eye had to get a little more naked. All with a hands-on approach, courtesy of the opposition.

He was going to enjoy this.

Bill locked the hatch.

“All right, you shoot with both hands. I’ll shoot with one.”

Laura nodded, loaded her gun as she’d been taught, and set the safety gear over her eyes and ears. For once, she followed every bit of advice he’d given her. It was like magic. She clasped her hands around the gun, slipped a finger onto the trigger, aimed, took a breath, exhaled half of it, and fired her first round. The bullet struck the silhouette between the “8” and “9” rings. It was unbelievable. It was wonderful.

She shouted with glee.

“You’re not that far away,” he said, feigning disappointment. “I think I gave you too much of an advantage.”

“No changing the rules now!” Laura said, bright-eyed and proud. He wanted to kiss her for it.

Bill fit the goggles over his eyes and then the earmuffs.

Getting into the mind-set was like pulling back the hammer. It was an automatic readiness, clicking into place. War had molded his soldier’s instincts into something so natural and essential to him that holding this pistol flooded his veins with a concentrated, buzzing fuel. Like an overture of adrenaline.

(Not unlike those sweet spikes of lust that Laura inspired. The suggestions that made his fingertips like sparklers. Laura always made it electric with the subtle shifts of her body, the delicacy in which she encouraged bad behavior.)

He aimed, and let his weaker arm drop to his side. He wanted this wide. He wanted her hands on him. He wanted her close.

With a bang, the loser-bullet left the chamber.

He grinned. “Guess you’re going to have to take something off me, Laura.”

There was a glow to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. “Make sure you play fair, Bill,” she said. Her voice was husky, like velvet pushed against the grain. “You don’t want to know what I do to cheaters.”

A barrage of images kicked through his head, keeping time with his blood as it rushed down his spine. Cheap porno stuff that somehow felt so meaningful, so exciting, with her attached to them. Laura bent down in front of him, and Bill stifled a groan when the crown of her head whispered against his thigh. She tugged at the laces of his boot, and tossed it aside with a heavy thump.

It was then that he decided to lose on a more consistent basis.

No matter where she hit, Bill made sure his shot was farther from the bull’s-eye. It turned him on, the delight in which she took off his boots, his socks, his belt. He played with Laura’s hair as she unbuttoned his tunic. She bit her lower lip as she struggled with the snug fifth button. She swept the jacket to the floor, hands lingering on his biceps. Squeezing. Leaving goose bumps.

His tanks went the round after that, and then his pants. And it became impossible to hide that he was hard.

“At the rate you’re going, you’re going to be naked soon, Bill. Very soon.”

He was counting on it, but Laura’s next shot went suspiciously wide of the target.  
“I think you missed on purpose,” he said.

He stepped in front of her, his hands trailing up her sides and catching the cords of her sweater until it swooped over her head and fluttered to the deck.

Laura’s thin undershirt clung to her body; and his fingers skated along her ribs, the sides of her breasts. He could feel the band of her bra beneath the fabric.

“Nice,” he breathed. “You’re wearing the black one.”

She chuckled, pushing his hands away. “How do you know?”

“From the feel of the lace.”

Laura hummed, tilting her head.

They had so little time, but Gods, Bill loved the slow burn. If he didn’t, he wasn’t sure he could have handled all of this. They were constantly hiding, by force and by choice. Even when they were alone. Playing make-believe. (This was how friends behaved. They were just mostly platonic. Sex was just breaking up the monotony, and they were adults and that was fine.) The charade made it mind-blowing when the force of pretending finally snapped them out of these protective god-like facades, and they could break and they could admit vulnerability and they could admit some wildness.

In her arms, he felt things he hadn’t in years. He felt freedom, he felt possibility. He felt present.

Bill moved back, determined to see this through. Holding this steady and pulling back slowly, wanting to be surprised by the explosion. But two fingers snagged the elastic of his boxer briefs, towing him back toward her. He couldn’t resist if he tried. He couldn’t help the small growl of encouragement as she worked the undershirt up her body and over her head.

Red.

Not the black.

Claret-colored, like rich Leonian wine.

Bill’s eyes fixed on her breasts, which made her laugh. He almost apologized for gawking, and for the way his dick practically jumped, before she set a hand on his chest and traced soft circles with her thumb.

She looked so smug.

“That’s new,” he choked out. His hands were restless, wandering her waist.  
“Well, not quite,” she said.

“But, I figured,” she continued, “The times are changing…”

There was a glimmer of challenge to her eyes, in the subtle dips of her inflection— a chilly flash of anger that resurfaced every now and then when the aftermath of the election stung at her like a nettle or dug in like a stone in her shoe. He shouldered a large portion of the blame, and he’d come to terms with that.

He knew her. Laura did not forgive and she did not forget; she moved onward and upward until the sheer distance snuffed out the pain. It was a fundamental difference between the two of them, just as she was a woman and he was a man, just as she was a survivor and he was a soldier.

But that was the unique danger of her. It was a lure. And history knew, he was weak for women with bite. He was particularly weak for this atomic firecracker, who backed him against the metal shelf like she was on the warpath, and gave him a kiss that kicked like a Saturday Night Special. He filled his palms with her lush breasts, as her body pressed into his.

The metal shelving dug into the small of his back; but the sting was worth the slow grind of their hips, the way her teeth nibbled on his lower lip, the driven slide of their tongues, the way her nipples pebbled against his hands, the taste of her skin beneath her ear and the way her head fell back and she sighed his name. It was almost enough. He could almost forget New Caprica and that vague knot of fear that built in his chest whenever he thought of her down there.

Almost.

Bill curled his arms around her and held Laura very close, gathering a handful of hair. “Laura,” he grumbled, “Promise me you’ll shoot to kill.”

Laura nodded, but she was only half-listening. Her head swayed and when she opened her eyes, she raked her nails down his upper arm and blazed a path down his body with her fingertips.

“I assure you, Admiral, I’m very effective at short range,” she breathed, her voice low. Her smile was blinding as her hand dipped between them, over his belly, and beneath the waistline of his shorts. He caught his breath. She gave him a squeeze, a stroke, and a gorgeous little whimper. She made him see stars.

Bill said nothing after that.

He ran his hand down her neck, and he felt her pulse, then over her breast pushing against him, and he felt her heartbeat. Between them, Bill intertwined his arm with hers (slowly pumping, making him crazy) and felt her forearm rub against his as he fumbled with the fastener of her pants. His knuckles scraped against her zipper. Her breath was hot against his face, and her pussy slick against his fingers.

When her knees went weak, she crushed her weight against him, and the shelf against his back broke the skin.

Afterward, a little bruised and a little sore, they sat on the deck with their limbs jumbled together and Laura’s head tucked beneath his chin. Bill was drowsy, almost dreamy, and good. Real frakkin’ good.

“You think it’s going to be ugly,” she said. Her voice adopted this airy quality… after. Always after, as if the depth of her voice reflected the weight of her burdens.

“We both know it’s going to be ugly,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head and breathing in the scent of her hair. Committing it to memory.

“I knew when we found it,” Laura whispered. “I knew when he took the oath.” She paused, and then sighed. “But, I need to have faith, Bill. I do. For them.” She lifted her hand from his chest. “That they might feel this. Some…lightness.”

Placing a hand on his thigh, she lifted and pivoted to look at him. “Sometimes,” she said carefully, with a solemn nod of her head, “…beauty can only be seen with a very kind eye.” And for an instant, her nebulous red hair reminded him of a blood-soaked halo and he thought of the prophecy and her illness and her death and how she’d made those things beautiful and purposeful. In her own way. And he reached out to touch her cheek, still flushed and radiant, and he felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Bill turned away and blinked, and then gave her a crooked smile.

“You talkin’ about me now?” He coughed up some rough gurgling noise that resembled his laughter.

Laura took his face in her hands. Her thumbs traced the craters that spotted his cheeks. “Never about you, Bill,” she declared, kissing him. “Never about you.”

He pulled her in close. “Let’s go shooting again soon,” he whispered.

Laura nodded and rested her cheek against his shoulder. The burdens returned to her voice when she said, “Alright, Bill. Soon.”


End file.
